Timber

The cold drew us to the den like bears,
and we stared at the fire, thinking,
until the embers started to look soft and orange-pink like taffy.
When the logs settled, they made sounds like breaking peppermints.

That place was such a summer part of me – such a part of summer me
so far removed from these ice days and this candy fire that I felt little,
and knew that to be deceptive.
Everyone knows that cold numbs the hurt.

The candy fire crackled and whispered to remind me
of another fire in another season,
where we traded kisses like secrets by the water
after all our worries had gone to sleep.

And I felt the linoleum, too smooth on scuffed bare feet,
felt the ash still clinging to my eyelashes
when I ran back up to the cabin for another lighter or another drink –
smiling all the while about how beautiful he was in the flashes from the fireworks.

I remembered getting lost in the metallic smell from
the cup of quarters I was feeding into the greedy slot machine,
lost in the thrum of the lever going back and the tumblers spinning
and constantly shifting my balance on that stepladder until I wasn’t conscious of it anymore.

I remember three a.m., lots of mornings, in the front room
by the kitchen, careful not to turn on too many lights or make too much noise,
careful not to scatter poker chips too far or lose the Jack of Hearts
under my grandmother’s old beige recliner.

I remember sleeping bags lined up in the living room and inner tubes against the wall
for my fourteenth birthday party. My tenth, eleventh, twelfth birthday parties.
The sound of my footsteps, walking back to wake Hunter for breakfast,
The rain on the roof and the clock digitally blinking the time in red from the corner.

The character of that place
was borne on the backs of the brown spiders
the sneak in through the gap under the kitchen cabinets
or the blue-tailed skink in the corner of the living room.

And some of that was lost with the timber –
it was nothing men could build, but it deserves our trying.

Sunshine and a Gale

There’s no weather-sealing on the windows in the new place.
When the wind blows, lukewarm and insistent over the carefully-planned Californian town, it keens past the windows fierce enough to belie the weather outside. Which is sunny and seventy, like always, and not a hint of rain for days or weeks or months to come.
But the wind blows, and with the blinds drawn, it sounds like a tempest.

Inside, my brother’s face is sad and tired and his beard isn’t trimmed and his t-shirt is wrinkled.
And my sister’s face is too pale and that makes her lipstick stand out as if to mock the picture of health.

It’s her first glass of wine in five months. And I could wish desperately that she was still sipping sparkling cider with dinner and afterward. But I know it wouldn’t change anything.

And my brother turns the television to Animal Planet and turns the volume down to an indistinguishable buzz. It’s just for company. And I worry that he’s doing this all the time now, just for lack of everything he left at home. I can’t pinpoint what’s sad about this. I’m broken.

My brother’s hands are always the same, sure and cautiously gentle. He uses his pocket knife to open a bottle, and busies himself with keeping everyone’s glass topped off.

My glass of red never gets shallower.Outside, the storm rages.

A Message

It’s your birthday,
and your face is up on my computer screen,
shaded by an overscreen that says
“replay” and “send to a friend”.

And all of a sudden, I’m crying again
because I’ve thought of you every minute
for the last several weeks

and I’ve seen your friends
and I’ve seen your relatives
and I’ve seen your picture
and I’ve heard your voice

and it’s just not a substitute.
And one of these days
I’ll get the hell out of here,
skip town
and fly all the way to civilization,
to summer in the land of perpetual
palm trees.

And you know,
I love you.
And I called you at the moment of your birth
Central Standard time, that is –
You didn’t answer.

“This is Jonathan. Leave a message.”
And I can’t help but feel that message
sums up our life, lately.

This is Jonathan: leave a message.

Liars, Lovers, Cowards All

And what are we to do
in the winter months
when the unspoken “I love you”
hangs in the air
on both ends of the phone.

It’s not enough to love
because someone, somewhere
has to know about it to make it real.

And what are we to do
when the rain comes down
and his transplanted girl
steps through the front door
and you know the “I love you”
won’t be uttered tonight –
not even between friends.

Because people are liars
and lovers and cowards –
people are just people.

Only the bravest
die the little death
that comes with
saying what you mean.

And the bravest
never live here
for long.